


By Candlelight

by hyracula



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Madeleine Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:36:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4330575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyracula/pseuds/hyracula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Facing some difficult paperwork, Inspector Javert is interrupted by a visit from Mayor Madeleine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Candlelight

Ordinarily Javert makes do with the cheap oily tallow candles; they suffice for eating a cold supper and undressing for bed, the extent of what use he makes of his apartment in Montreuil-sur-mer. Most nights he stays at the police station until eight o’clock or later, writing reports by the light of oil lamp. However, he does keep a stock of beeswax candles in his home for those nights he wishes to read or write. He lights two tonight, their bright warm light giving the sparse rooms an unusually comfortable cast. The light mingles with the glow from the banked fireplace and dances across the plain yet serviceable furniture, reflecting off the polished table to illuminate the sideboard and cabinets, glinting off the window above the stiff rarely-used settee, illuminating the darkened doorway to Javert’s small spartan bedroom. The slightly sweet honey-scent of the beeswax begins to suffuse the room as the Inspector places a stack of flimsy papers on the table. He sets out his writing implements methodically: quill pen, penknife, powder jar, ink jar. He appears about to sit, but with a hand on the back of the chair, Javert hesitates, then retrieves a bottle of wine and a cup from the sideboard. Thus prepared, Police Inspector Javert faces the task before him. 

He looks at an arrest notice, sets it aside; picks up fresh sheet of paper, dips his pen, and hesitates again, setting down the quill. Instead he reaches for the wine bottle, pours a liberal measure into the glass, and takes a drink. His normally stern lines betray inner conflict as he sets pen to paper and scratches out “The Arrest of Jean Valjean, alias Champmathieu” before setting down the pen once again. Javert leans back, heaves a sigh, and scrubs his hands across his face, a lock of hair escaping from his normally tidy queue. He’s been avoiding writing this report all day, and the privacy of his home isn’t making it any easier. Even looking at the heading sets off a twinge of guilt in his stomach. How could he ever have thought Mayor Madeleine the same man as that dangerous fugitive? 

A simple set of coincidences had put the idea in his head, and then same instincts that made Javert an excellent police investigator had led him down the wrong path, seeing fault where there was none. It galls Javert that his finely-honed policing skills, such a point of pride, could fail him so. He grimaces unconsciously at the thought. Proud, cynical Javert. Can’t accept a good man when he meets one—though Monsieur Madeleine was lauded universally by all, praised as a saviour of M-sur-M, the police Inspector immediately suspected some dark secret.

For, after all, Mayor Madeleine had no lovers, not even on the sly. He was on speaking terms with all residents of M-sur-M, from wealthy nobles to beggars and whores, and he knew the names of a truly startling number of them; yet, still, Javert’s observations had shown that Madeleine did not seem to have anyone he truly called friend. No one with whom he shared more than a cordial relationship. And he seemed particularly distant around the town’s notoriously hard-nosed Investigator; Javert had observed Madeleine chatting and laughing easily with others, only to stiffen and grow quiet upon his entry to the room. 

Slowly, however, the Mayor seemed to warm up to the Inspector. Morning greetings that began as terse nods and formal pronunciations grew less proscribed, more genuine. The Mayor began to smile when he said his bonjours, and the Inspector began to find himself looking forward to their daily ritual. He still remembers the first day they stopped to exchange pleasantries. And still Javert’s suspicions mounted. Even as they shared the occasional coffee or game of chess, Javert saw nothing but a man with a secret, manipulating the Inspector with charming overtures in order to gain his trust. He was blind to the fact that monsieur le maire is simply a lonely man, reaching out to another lonely man.

And then, piling shame upon shame, when he confessed his error to Monsieur Madeleine, the mayor had forgiven him without a second glance! If he had only accepted his resignation… but no, Javert has to live with the guilt of having misjudged a good man. And part of living means performing his duties, and tonight his duty is writing the arrest report of the true Valjean, a man who showed the concept of criminal reformation to be nonsense, a man who lied and stole at every turn. It needles Javert that Valjean had been captured while carrying out a petty theft of food, almost identical to his original crime—did the man learn nothing during his incarceration?

Spurred by anger, Javert turns to the paper once more, but this time the face of Monsieur Madeleine materialises at the back of his mind, and the inspector is unable to focus on anything except the relentlessly kindly eyes of the city’s foremost citizen. The memory of the mayor’s forgiving hand on his shoulder sets his stomach burning with shame again, and he cools his throat with another mouthful of wine, swallowing it with a wince and a grunt. He knows the misjudgement shouldn’t be gnawing at him so; even Madeleine dismissed the incident as a common mistake. Still, being wrong in such a manner and concerning two such different men has unsettled a part of him that he had previously thought unshakeable. Memories of the prisoner lifting a boulder with unnatural strength, muscles on his chest rippling under the branded numbers, alternate with thoughts of the mayor raising a cart to save an injured man, arms straining at the seams of his finely-tailored shirt. Javert grits his teeth. He had been so _sure_!

Javert’s unsettling reverie is interrupted by a tentative knock at the door. He starts up, frowning, half convinced he’s imagined the distraction. The knock comes again, louder, and he crosses the small room to answer. The figure that fills the doorway suddenly takes him aback. 

“Monsieur le maire!” exclaims Javert, startled. His mouth hangs open for a fraction of a second, but he recovers himself and continues, “To what do I owe this honour at such a late hour?”

“Inspector. I pardon the rudeness of my intrusion, but I saw the light from your window, and I thought—well, I would speak with you.” Were Javert more composed, he would notice that Monsieur Madeleine seemed almost as uncomfortable as himself, his ordinarily smooth appearance windblown and tossed as if from a hard ride.

“Of course! Come in, Monsieur Madeleine!” Javert sweeps one arm inwards. “Please pardon the untidiness, I’ve been catching up on some work.” 

Madeleine gives Javert a wry look, as if to say he knows exactly how likely it is for the inspector to fall behind in his duties. All he says, however, is “Think nothing of it. We are both men of business.” He crosses to the small table and sits down. Javert retrieves a second glass and sits down, pouring wine; however unaccustomed to guests, the small automatic movements of propriety give the inspector time to recover from his shock. He slides the glass across the table to Madeleine, whose familiar face is framed between the two beeswax candles. 

Madeleine raises the glass to his lips with a muttered “Merci,” swallows, and sets the glass down with a sigh. Javert says nothing, simply watches the mayor’s movements. Bracketed by the candlesticks, Madeleine’s features have taken on a golden cast, as though he’s standing before a private sunrise. The mayor glances up and looks into Javert’s face; Javert jerks his glance down to his wine, unwilling or unable to meet the older man’s eyes. 

“So, Monsieur,” Javert begins after a lengthy pause, “given our earlier meeting and your apparent reluctance to speak, I imagine you are here to tell me that you’ve changed your mind and wish to procure my dismissal after all.” He has affected a mild unconcerned tone, yet Javert still speaks to his wine glass. Madeleine’s sharp intake of breath jerks Javert’s eyes upward despite himself. 

“No—no, Inspector, that is not--” Mayor Madeleine grimaces, then takes a deep breath. “No. Javert, I am here to tell you the opposite. Despite our differences, you have been a force for justice in this city. I needed to make sure you understand—I still have the utmost respect for your abilities.” 

Javert cringes at this. How can the mayor say such a thing after he has disgraced himself so? He shakes his head almost involuntarily, as if to clear the Mayor’s absurd words from his mind, and looks down at his wine. At the sudden violent motion, a lock of hair slips forward into his face. Javert pushes it back and pats the back of his head, noticing that the ribbon that holds his queue in place has come loose. “Your pardon, Monsieur,” he mutters, tilting back his head. The Mayor nods graciously, though his mouth twitches slightly. Unused to having another’s eyes on him, Javert’s hands shake and the practiced motions of a lifetime seem unfamiliar; the ribbon slips free from his thick hair and coils into his hands. 

“Merde!” he swears, shaking his head and tossing the iron-dark mass of hair before grabbing it roughly in both hands, attempting once more to wrap the ribbon around the thick tail. 

“Inspector, if you’ll permit me…?” Monsieur Madeleine says, voice rising in a hesitant question. Javert looks up. “I used to wear my hair in that fashion, when I was younger,” the mayor continues, looking at Javert with a curious expression—pity? indulgence? Either would be distasteful, but rather than embarrass himself further, Javert simply jerks his head once in a terse nod. 

Madeleine rises and crosses the room to stand behind the Inspector’s chair. In an effort to regain some composure, Javert picks up his wine glass again and takes a long swallow. You may have lost your pride, but must you lose your dignity as well? he chastises himself silently, glad to have the Mayor out of his field of view despite the unnerving circumstance. 

“Inspector. Tilt your head back, if you would, please.” Mayor Madeleine’s strong quiet voice behind him. Javert obeys and closes his eyes, resolutely trying not to think about the fact that, piling incompetence upon incompetence, he now requires assistance for even such a simple task. A sudden pressure from the Mayor’s hands on his temples, and his eyes fly open again. Mayor Madeleine is running his fingers through the Inspector’s hair, fluffing it from the roots. 

“Mon-monsieur?” Javert says. He’s not sure what he means to ask, but thankfully Madeleine finds his own interpretation. 

“This will encourage your hair to fall naturally on your scalp. Then it will lay more easily in a queue.” The mayor’s fingertips are moving gently through Javert’s hair in a zigzag motion as he speaks. “You know, you are rather fortunate,” Madeleine continues. “Your hair is quite thick and yet very straight. My own hair is too curly to sit neatly if it’s long.” 

Javert finds his voice. “Is that why you ceased wearing your queue?” 

Madeleine is silent for a long moment, though his fingers continue their motion. “One of the reasons.” Suddenly he tightens his hands, raking Javert’s hair through fingers like the teeth of a comb. A lock of hair has become wrapped around the tip of one and he feels a sharp tug. He gasps involuntarily. 

“Je suis désolé!” Madeleine exclaims. “Did I hurt you?” His hands are still, curled at the nape of Javert’s neck. 

“No, I was simply startled for a moment. Please, continue.” Javert blushes as he realises how commanding his tone sounds, but the mayor resumes his finger-combing without question. The inspector is glad his back is to the older man. 

“Hand me the tie, please,” Madeleine asks, and Javert reaches back, holding the black ribbon up to the mayor. Their fingers brush as he takes it and Javert jerks his hand down as if burned. Lord, what is wrong with me tonight? he thinks. Everything is making me twitch. The situation is just so—strange; Mayor Madeleine calling on him late in the evening, Mayor Madeleine in his apartment, Mayor Madeleine tying his hair; the normally implacable inspector is on unfamiliar ground here. 

“Look down,” says the mayor, and Javert feels a gentle tug as Madeleine gathers his hair, wraps the ribbon, and ties it off with deft movements. “There you go. I hope that will suit.” 

Javert reaches back, pats the tidy knot approvingly. “Thank you, monsieur le maire. It’s—thank you. I apologise for the inconvenience.” As he speaks, he pushes the chair back to rise.

“No, inspector, think nothing of it!” Madeleine says with a laugh. Javert turns to face him. 

“You have always been too kind” Javert says, as he cannot bring himself to be insubordinate. The older man has not moved, and they are standing uncomfortably close together; for the first time this evening, Javert meets Madeleine’s eyes. At his words, something flickers across the mayor’s face. 

“Javert, I—I came here to—” The mayor takes a deep breath. “I needed you to know, that no matter what has passed between us—no matter what will pass between us—I have come to hold you in the highest regard.” 

Javert stares. His mouth opens slightly, but he finds no words; he truly cannot understand this man. He feels a burning in his chest, as if he’s swallowed a live coal, and he can feel the flush creeping up his neck-- 

\-- yet the mayor blithely continues. Madeleine reaches down, grasps his hands. “And I—truly—bear you no ill will.” The mayor leans forward and kisses Javert’s cheek, face turned upward slightly toward the taller man, lips brushing gently against the day’s stubble. It is a kiss of absolution, of punctuation, and he moves his head to repeat the gesture on the other side. But something in Javert’s hindbrain takes control and turns his face to intercept the kiss, and the mayor’s lips land squarely on the inspector’s. 

Both men are frozen. Javert’s eyes are closed. His pulse pounds in his ears. Madeleine’s hands are wrapped around his. Madeleine’s lips—oh, god, monsieur le maire’s lips! Javert’s life is distilled into a handful of sensations that seem almost too intense for his mind to properly categorize: the rushing sound of blood, the sweet scent of beeswax, the warm calloused hands, the lips hot and surprisingly soft against his mouth. 

The moment lasts a heartbeat, or is it an hour? And then Mayor Madeleine pulls back, and Javert opens his eyes, and the spell is broken. 

Madeleine’s eyes are wide. His mouth opens and closes. “I—oh. Um. I didn’t.” A nervous tongue darts out, circumnavigates that red mouth. “I’m sorry, Jav—Inspector.”

Javert’s chest is burning. He winces and looks down. “No, Monsieur. The fault is mine. I cannot explain my actions, I can merely ask your forgiveness.” Again, he thinks sourly.

“No!” says Madeleine, a bit too quickly. A hand gently cups Javert’s chin, tilts his face upward. He keeps his eyes closed, unable to face further unbearable mercies. 

“No,” continues the Mayor, voice softer now. “There is nothing that I blame you for. Perhaps—in another life—” and Madeleine’s lips once more press against Javert’s. Javert does not move, does not breathe, does not think, and soon the Mayor withdraws, releases him. “No,” he says again, and if Javert were in his right mind he might even think the older man sounds sad—“No, it’s not to be. I am sorry. Javert.” 

The inspector takes a long inhale of breath, holds it. Opens his eyes. Staring just above monsieur le maire’s shoulder, he says “It is not your place to apologize to your servant, Monsieur.”

Turning suddenly, Javert crosses the room in a few strides. He faces the Mayor once again and delivers a sharp bow, perfectly calculated for the exact degree of deference that one of his station must owe a town magistrate. “Thank you for honouring me with your visit, monsieur,” he states in academy-perfect tones. 

Mayor Madeleine does not move for a long moment, simply watches Javert. Finally, after an interminable silence, he crosses to the door.

“Inspector. Please. Just—remember what I’ve said?” The mayor’s tone is oddly pleading, yet Javert does not look over. He simply nods once. Madeleine sighs. “Good night, Inspector Javert.”

“Good night, monsieur le maire.”

Javert hears the door shut. It is a long moment before he can finally unbend, and when he does he sags bonelessly against the table. He picks up the pen, moving with the distraction of a sleepwalker; he dips it, and stares sightlessly at page before him. A drop of ink falls from the nib of the pen, spreads out in the centre of the page; another one follows, and the small pap as it falls finally gains the Inspector’s attention. He stares at the ruined sheet for a long moment, until with a sudden violent motion he balls the sheet in his fist and slams it on the tabletop. The candlelight wavers with the impact. Eventually he seems to find his feet; he stands upright, snuffs one candle, picks up the other candlestick, crosses to his bedroom, and shuts the door.

\-----------------------------------------

The next night. Inspector Javert sits at his table and lights his beeswax candles, noting that one will need to be replaced soon. Writing implements to hand, neat stacks of paper before him. He reaches out, picks up the arrest notice, and stares at it for a long breath. Then he sets it aside, picks up his pen, and begins to write. The Arrest of Jean Valjean, alias Madeleine. As the warm smell of honey begins to fill the room, his hand is shaking; the pen sputters, and ink blurs the end of the name. He sprinkles it with drying powder and continues writing.


End file.
